Here With Me
by Pen Stillwater
Summary: Francis and Arthur always dreamed of having a child, a little boy or girl they could love and share everything with. However, being a foster parent is never easy, and when they are suddenly given double the responsibility they expected, Arthur and Francis must find a way to connect with their children - before Alfred and Matthew reach the ends of their ropes.


**Hello! **

**I'll make this short; Hi! I'm Pen. Here is my first fic! Ten bucks says I've formatted it wrong somehow and will be embarrassed of it within a month! I'll try to update roughly once a week or two, but I make no promises regarding consistency. Enjoy!**

The ticking of the cheap plastic clock on the wall of the office echoed in Arthur's ears, making the seconds feel longer than they should. He wished he had brought a book to distract himself with, but knew he was too wound up to read. The wait had strung his nerves torturously thin.

He looked over at Francis, sitting in the chair next to him. He was pulling on his tie, loosening and tightening the careful windsor knot until the fabric was rumpled and uneven. Arthur wanted nothing more than to reach over and fix it, but he was afraid his hands would shake.

Arthur and Francis had been trying to become foster parents for over a year. And now, after all the collecting of references, background checks, and nerve-wracking interviews, they were finally there.

Williams, Matthew. Fifteen, born July first. Entered foster care when he was nine. That was all the information the couple had received on the sparse file that was finally thrown their way, and it had left them plenty of room for imagination. The two had sat up all the previous night imagining what their future child would be like. Would he be into sports? Or would he prefer sitting inside? Perhaps he could cook, like Francis? Maybe, Arthur had speculated, he would like reading. He couldn't count the number of times he had sat up at night imagining sharing his favourite books with a son or daughter.

The door to the reception area opened, and their social worker walked out. Both Arthur and Francis stood up.

"Gentlemen," said the woman, smiling benevolently. "This is Matthew."

The boy shuffled out nervously from behind the social worker. Matthew Williams was gangly, with overgrown wavy blond hair that just brushed his shoulders. His eyes were hidden behind glasses, though his persistence in his gaze at the floor meant Arthur wouldn't be able to see them even if he weren't wearing the round thick-lensed monstrosities. A dirty hockey bag hung over one scrawny shoulder.

Francis was the first to break the silence, nodding politely and smiling just like the pamphlets said they were supposed to.

"Hello Matthew," he said. "I'm Francis and this is my partner, Arthur."

Matthew's eyes didn't leave the ground. "Nice to meet you," he muttered, in a soft, whispery voice that Arthur had to strain to catch.

"I'm sure you boys will get along fine," said the social worker. "Now, Matthew, lets get you stuff to the Bonnefoy-Kirkland's car, all right?"

After a deathly silent car ride, the makeshift family arrived home. Arthur had agreed with Francis that they should do a short tour first, as one book had suggested, and the couple lead Matthew into the house and immediately up the stairs.

"So, this will be your bedroom," said Francis, opening a door at the end of the hall. "Our room is down there -" he pointed. "- And the bathroom's next to your room."

Matthew nodded, staring at the hallway rug.

"So… how about you get settled in?" asked Arthur. "Francis and I will start on dinner. Then after we eat we can give you a tour of the rest of the house."

Matthew nodded again, and Francis turned to head back downstairs. Arthur hesitated.

"Are you sure you don't need any help unpacking?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, which was sore even thought the car ride had been brief. "Ah… there's no need to call me sir, lad."

"What should I call you, then?" Matthew asked in his soft, soft voice.

"Just Arthur would be fine, if that's all right with you."

"Same for me," piped in Francis. "You can call me Francis."

Matthew nodded, and started backing slowly into his room. Arthur followed his partner down the stairs, looking back over his shoulder as the door closed with a quiet click.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Francis reaching for the wine cupboard.

"No way, frog-face," Arthur said. "We have a child in the house."

Francis's hand changed direction mid-air. He grabbed the french press and flipped the electric kettle on. "Mon dieu," he said. "I didn't realize that this would be so… tense."

Arthur sighed, fetching his mug from the cupboard and plopping a tea bag into it. "He's a foster kid. God knows what he's been through, or how many families he's had. We both read the paperwork."

"I know," Francis ran his hand through his long blond hair. "I just want it to be easier. I want him to feel at home here."

Arthur gave a halfhearted smirk, and tried to fall back into the pattern of arguing he knew so well. "Well, maybe he'd feel more at home if your stupid accent wasn't polluting the air."

"How could you say that to me," asked Francis, a hand over his heart and a smile growing on his face. "When I speak only ze language of love?! Eet eez your _stupide _Eenglish accent zhat drives ze people away!"

Arthur smacked him on the shoulder. "C'mon, frog. We have to make dinner."

"You mean I have to make dinner, and you have to try and not let your mere presence cause the food to revolt," muttered Francis, jumping away and laughing when Arthur swung again.

Matthew dragged his bag to the centre of the bedroom and gave the room a once-over. The walls were a gender-neutral shade of sunny yellow, and two beds with yellow quilts sat on either side of the room. The dresser matched the bedside tables and the warm brown rug matched the curtains, making the room look like it was more ready for a photo shoot than to house a kid. It reminded Matthew of a magazine picture, like it was an example of a generic kid's room instead of somewhere a real person with actual interests could live.

He pushed the heavy hockey bag over to the bed furthest from the door and shoved it underneath. He wasn't really going to unpack yet. It would just be a hassle to pack back up again when he had to leave.

Matthew walked the perimeter of the room, examining but not touching anything. There was a punching bag in the corner, the bright red fabric clashing with all other decor in the room. _A foster teen may need a way to express their anger in a healthy way; it is a good idea to give them a safe outlet for them to do so. _Matthew had read the books and pamphlets on foster kids whenever they had been lying around, and he was smart enough to know that was code for _try to prevent your foster kid from breaking your stuff by giving them something to punch._

When Matthew had confirmed all his initial findings, he sat down on his new bed. A guttural noise emerged from his gut, making him jump lightly when it interrupted the silence. He hoped dinner would be ready soon.

Flopping backwards, he thought about his new foster parents. They didn't seem too bad. So far they hadn't barraged him with a whole bunch of rules, but he was guessing they would wait until dinner to do that. They probably weren't scary-religious, because there were no crosses or cross-stitched bible quotes in the room, and no one had mentioned Hell yet. And it was kinda cool how they were from foreign countries, England and France based on their accents.

But the room seemed so pristine and unblemished, and they were so nervous that he guessed they were first-timers. He wasn't sure of that was a good or bad thing.

Matthew pushed thoughts of his new predicament out of his head, trying to enjoy his newfound alone time.

Dinner was turning out to be as silent and awkward as the car ride had been. Though Francis had prepared an incredible roast beef with all the fixings, Matthew had only taken a small portion, and seemed entirely focused on cutting up each piece of meat and chewing it very slowly.

Francis rubbed the wedding band on his finger, twisting it around his finger. He looked sideways at Arthur, who gave him a shaky smile.

Francis took a deep breath. "So, Matthew," he said, trying to break the silence as nonchalantly and calmly as possible.

Matthew's eyes darted up from his plate. It was probably the first time Francis had seen him make anything close to eye contact with him. His eyes were a surprising hue of blue-violet in the kitchen lights.

Francis cleared his throat. "Did you enjoy the dinner?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Francis is a chef," Arthur offered, trying to get some conversation going. "He works at a restaurant downtown. He does most of the cooking."

"Yes, because god help you if Arthur ever cooks," Francis cracks a nervous grin. "The woman at poison control knows me by name now."

Angry spots of colour bloomed on Arthur's cheeks. "The only reason she knows you is because of your stupid accent," he snapped.

"Arthur, Maureen has sent us Christmas cards for the past two years. It's not my accent."

Francis could swear he saw a ghost of a smile on Matthew's face, but it was gone before he could be sure.

"Anyways, lad," said Arthur. "I work as an editor, so I mostly stay at home. Speaking of which, do you think you would like to start school right at the beginning of september, or would you like to wait?"  
Matthew moved his hands into his lap, below the table. "Whenever is convenient," he said.

Francis jumped in. "Well, you certainly don't have to decide now. We have weeks before school starts."

Arthur nodded. "Yes, that is true. Is there anything you want to do with your remaining summer, lad?"

"Nothing comes to mind sir," Matthew's voice had gotten even smaller.

"Come on, there must be something," said Arthur. "What do you like to do in your spare time?"

Matthew remained silent. His eyes had retreated to the tablecloth once again.

_Nonnonnon! _thought Francis. He searched his mind desperately for a way to fix the conversation.

He stretched and yawned. "Well, I do not know about you, but I am tired," Francis said. "Arthur and I can clean up the dishes; Matthew, there is a television in the basement if you want, and a bookshelf in the den. You can do what you want until you want to go to bed, oui?"

Matthew nodded, stood up, and walked upstairs without another word. Arthur watched him go, then turned to Francis with hurt in his eyes.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded. "We were almost having a conversation."

Matthew shut the door as quietly as he could, collapsing against it. He felt exhausted, and still hungry. He hadn't taken enough food when he was offered, and he didn't want to ask for more.

Either way, now he finally had some time to himself. Hopefully Arthur and Francis would now spend the rest of the night arguing, and forget about him.

Matthew pulled his bag out from under the bed and rifled through it. He pulled a bar of soap and a plastic knife. Now he could get down to business.

The one thing that had been abundant in the last home he had been in was soap. No one ever seemed to notice if one of the blocky, chemical-smelling bars went missing. Matthew discovered that the bars could be formed into the shapes of animals, people and things when he was younger, and had spent most of his free time carving ever since.

Holding the plastic knife by the very tip, he began carefully stroking the surface of the soap, peeling off shavings that fell onto the floor in a neat pile. He began by making the shape of the block softer, more ovular, before deciding what to make.

Wanting a model for this carving, he reached into his suitcase again and pulled out a worn and yellowed stuffed polar bear. Kuma had been with him no matter where he went, and Matthew refused to give him up even though he was aware he was technically too old for a stuffed toy. He posed his old friend on his floppy back legs, and continued carving.

"-but why not?!"

Arthur said angrily, doing the dishes with more vigour than was necessary. Francis sighed from the table, where he was moving the remains of the roast into a tupperware.

"Ma cherie, I understand you were trying to make conversation, but all those questions were scaring him!"

"All I wanted to do was talk! I never asked him anything probing, or tried to pretend we were already close, or-"

"It wasn't what you were asking him," Francis sighed and put the leftovers in the fridge. "Matthew seems to be a very private boy. We need to respect his boundaries, at least for a few days, before we start trying to get him out of his shell. You said yourself, God knows what he's been through. We have to be patient."

Arthur remained silent, his shoulders hunched over the sink as the frantic washing slowed. Francis walked over to him and wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder. He watched Arthur's hands as they scrubbed a plate, going around the edges in slow, methodic circles.

"But for a second there… It felt like we were joking. Like everything was falling into place," Arthur said quietly. "I thought it was okay."

Francis gently kissed Arthur's cheek, wrapping him tighter in the hug. "Ma cherie," he said. "We will get there."

Matthew worked on the soap bear until his the light from the window faded. He had managed to render the face of the little statue, with fur pushed back across it's snout and a bewildered look in it's tiny eyes. He looked down at the pile of soap shavings, which had grown into a small mountain. He scooped some up in one hand and let them fall back down between his fingers.

In the quiet he heard the faint creaking of feet on the stairs. Was he supposed to be in bed yet? Matthew wasn't sure. With one sweep of his hand, he quickly brushed the shavings under the rug, and tucked Kuma under one arm like a football. Then he soundlessly vaulted into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin to hide that he was still fully clothed.

"Lad?" Arthur's voice came through the door. "Are you all right in there?"

"Yessir," Matthew answered, glancing around the room. He thought everything was left as he found it- no! He had left his carving on the floor! He quickly reached down and knocked it under the bed with the shavings. Matthew cringed at the slight clatter it made when it hit the ground.

Arthur, though, seemed to take no notice of the sound. "You should probably turn out your lights soon. If you get hungry in the night, Francis left some food in the fridge. You can heat it up in the microwave if you want. Do you remember where the bathroom is?"

"Yessir," Matthew repeated. He thought he could hear the a sigh through the door, but he wasn't sure.

"All right."

After a slight pause Arthur spoke again. "Goodnight, Matthew."

"G'night, sir."

Matthew listened until he could hear feet on the stairs again before he relaxed. He crawled out of the bed and retrieved the statue from the floor. One of the ears had shattered off when he had knocked it under the bed. He sighed and gently placed the bear in his bag.

It was late, and even though he wasn't tired Matthew thought he had better go to sleep. He pulled off his favourite red hoodie and jeans, crawling into bed in his boxers and a stained white t-shirt.

The sheets were clean, and smelled faintly of lavender. Matthew guessed even though he wasn't a fan of his "new home", it wasn't terrible. At least everything seemed pretty clean. And he didn't have to fight a bunch of other kids to get at the dinner table.

_If nothing else,_ Matthew thought as he slowly drifted off, _I'll finally get some peace and quiet._


End file.
